


You've Buried Your Heart In the Ground

by LayALioness



Series: I Hope This Song Will Guide You Home [5]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2015-09-06
Packaged: 2018-04-19 08:38:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4739933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The grounders call her Shez gon Noumon—Mother of Ashes. They always stop by her cabin, on their way to trade, to offer prayers.</p><p>“It is a blessing,” he explained. “Mai disha tombom eynd houm, en mai ay seintaim.”</p><p>“May this heart find its home,” he translated. ”And may I follow.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	You've Buried Your Heart In the Ground

**Author's Note:**

> This was going to be a lot sadder and more serious BUT I know where my strengths lie, and it is in comedic one-liners and happy endings so here we are.
> 
> Crooked Fingers by Doctors of Deliverance, for Rashaka

The grounders call her _Shez gon Noumon_ —Mother of Ashes. They always stop by her cabin, on their way to trade, to offer _prayers_.

She hadn’t known what they were doing, at first, but Lincoln was with her once and so she asked him.

“What does that mean?” she gestured to the group—it was a small one, just five or six, all half-bent with their heads tipped down, waving two fingers through the air.

“It is a blessing,” he explained. “ _Mai disha tombom eynd houm_ , _en mai ay seintaim._ ”

Clarke had learned a good bit of Trigedasleng along her travels, but it was hard; each tribe had their own particular dialect, each just a little different from the one before. She recognized _may this_ , and _home_ , and _may I also_ , but the other words escaped her. Lincoln seemed to catch on.

“ _May this heart find its home_ ,” he translated. ”And may I follow.” Okay, so she was a little off.

The grounders did another hand gesture before standing, and she looked to him in question.

“They ask your blessing in return,” he said lowly. “A gift from the Mother of Ashes can go a long way.”

“They want a gift?” Clarke asked, surprised. Normally they just did their little funny bow—their blessing, apparently—and sometimes gave her hard flatbread or sticky honey or fresh herbs to make into medicine. They always refused her things in turn—batteries or fried machinery from Raven, or old books newly bound, the way Bellamy taught her. She’d thought they were taking pity on her, and making sure she didn’t starve. She’d thought they didn’t _want_ anything from her.

Lincoln shook his head. “It is a prayer,” he explained. “They want your favor. They believe you have gone to the land of the dead, and led your people back to the living.”

Clarke gaped at him a little, and then at the grounders themselves. They were standing, waiting for something, a little fidgety by her door.

“What should I say?”

Lincoln shrugged. “Whatever you wish. They are not warriors; they do not speak English.” He smiled a little patronizingly, and she would have been offended, if it weren’t Lincoln. “I doubt they’ll understand much.”

She huffed a little, and turned to the group. “ _Mochof_ ,” she said, language still stiff and awkward on her tongue, no matter how many months she’d spent practicing. “ _Ai sen in yu chichnes. Ai chof, en hodnes._ ” She stumbled over the last bit, and Lincoln sniggered a little into his arm, but the grounders seemed relatively pleased, so she figured she did alright enough. She certainly didn’t insult or scare them off, at least.

One—a girl, no older than Monroe—stepped forward, with something large and wrapped in old scarves held in both hands. She held it out for Clarke to take, and it was heavier than she’d expected.

They left quickly after that, like they didn’t want to see her open it. That almost made her nervous, but Lincoln just shrugged and said it was bad luck to watch someone unwrap a gift you’ve given.

The scarves fell away easily, revealing a solid, well-carved mask of dark wood. It was larger than her face, rising a few inches above her head and dipping down to below her collar bone. The wood was smoothed down, and intricately carved spirals ran down the sides. It took her a moment to realize they were feathers, and the strange-shaped thing was a bird. There was a narrow, sharp beak where her nose sat, and two little round holes for her eyes. The ends of the feathers swirled out and around, like they were on fire.

“It’s a _Soncha Striktsang_ ,” Lincoln said, tracing the lines of the wood almost reverently. “A bird made of fire. It burns to ash and to be reborn.”

“A phoenix,” Clarke realized, taking in the mask’s details until the weight made her fingers go numb.

“It is your _Keryon_ ,” Lincoln explained. “Your past life.”

“I always seem to turn things to ashes,” Clarke said wryly, but Lincoln placed a hand on her shoulder, firm and serious.

“You are always born again,” he corrected. “Stronger, and new. Each fire is a lesson, and you learn from each one.”

Clarke cleared her throat and nodded, because what was there to say? Of all the people who knew here, Lincoln somehow trusted her the most. Except maybe Bellamy, but even he was still nervous. He put off leaving until the last minute, each time, worried that when he came back the next day, her cabin would be empty, and she would be gone.

Lincoln trusted that if she left, it would be for the right reasons, and that she would come back when they needed. It was a small comfort, but one that she held dear.

He didn’t stay for supper; he never did. Meals were to be shared with Octavia, who refused to come to the cabin. She would speak to Clarke, a little, when they shared the same space, but she never voluntarily came to visit. She never struck up the conversation, and they never really left on good terms, they just left.

Clarke hung the mask up above the fireplace, so it’d be the first thing Bellamy saw when he walked in.

Bellamy didn’t like to be there when the grounders were—he didn’t dislike them, and they seemed to respect him, but they reminded him of Mt. Weather, and the Dropship, and every other bad decision he ever made on Earth. The grounders, in turn, didn’t like the 100 witnessing their blessings. Lincoln was allowed, because he was sort of one of them. A little. Or, he used to be.

These days he spends just as much time in Camp Jaha, helping to translate, and teach the Arker’s different hunting methods, or edible plants. He’d helped them insulate their cabins with dried grass, the winter that Clarke was gone. Kids have started running up to him, when they need to know the name of a specific berry, or when they just want to show up. He’s _Lincoln, Octavia’s_ houmon _,_ or _Lincoln, Bellamy’s_ bro. The grounders call him _Tu Wam_ , two winds. Two worlds.

That night, when Bellamy showed up, he didn’t notice the mask for nearly two hours. She’d made soup from some strange squirrel-rabbit hybrid she’d caught in her traps behind the cabin, and some of the wild leeks she’s been growing in her yard. She still had some flatbread from the last batch of grounders that swung through, and Bellamy always says he ate dinner with the rest of the camp, but she _knows_ he likes to give most of his portion to the younger, smaller ones, until there’s nearly nothing left, so she just rolls her eyes and dishes him up a bowl, anyway.

Then they talked, about everything, easy and warm and open, like they were at the beginning.

Well, maybe not the beginning, but the middle. Certainly not the end, when she had left him at the camp’s gate, looking like someone had stuck their hand down his throat and ripped out his organs.

And maybe she had. Maybe she’d been the match and he’d swallowed her, and she’d burned him down from the inside out.

It’s a grisly thought, but most of hers are, these days. Or they were, before he’d shown up while she was building the cabin, just a few weeks after she’d come back, because—shockingly she still doesn’t belong there. She hadn’t _really_ thought she would, not after everything that happened, everything she’d done. But she’d sort of hoped that leaving would somehow, if not erase, than smooth some of it down, like sandpaper. Absence making the heart grow fonder and all that.

But she’d come back, and they hadn’t forgotten. If anything, her absence had let the stories fester and grow, until she was some sort of legend whispered around campfires and children’s tents at night.

People don’t really know what to do, when their legends show up before them, real and tangible and broken. They don’t know how to take it; ghost stories coming true, dreams becoming reality. For most, she’d been this awe-inspiring _hero_ , wiping out their enemies deep in a mountain, with just one switch.

And suddenly here she was, just a girl, smaller than average, and with a bad case of poison oak from peeing in the woods at night.

They all called her _Clarke_ , but they sounded like the grounders, making her name into a prayer.

And she had no favors to give them, so she left. She’d gotten good at hiking during her time away, good at noticing which land would be good for growing, and which spots housed animals nearby. She chose a plot deep in the woods, just two miles from the camp, in case of emergency. Somewhere easy to get to, if they knew where to look.

She didn’t want to take lumber from them; she’d taken so much, already. Raven and Wick still ventured out, of course, with little pouches of nails melted down from scrap metal they assured her wasn’t necessary. Sometimes they’d help her hammer together old tree logs and branches, in some crude attempt at architecture, but mostly they’d just sit around and watch. Drink the mulberry wine Monty was experimenting with, and offer completely unhelpful advice about everything.

They usually threw things at each other, too—rocks and bits of tree bark and sometimes even grass, though that never hit the mark—until Clarke finally had enough of it and ordered them to leave.

They always came back, though, and she was always relieved when they did.

“Admit it,” Wick said once, folding a dandelion behind Raven’s ear while she flushed and elbowed him. “You like having us around.”

“Only for the nails,” Clarke shot back, but they looked entirely unconvinced, so she ignored them until dinner time, when they dragged her back to camp. Her cabin was barely even started, and taking much longer than she’d anticipated, so she was still sleeping on the extra pallet in Bellamy’s cabin.

She only slept there because the others were packed three-to-a-room, or sometimes just two like in Raven’s and Wick’s case, because nobody else wanted to hear their weird robot role play. In Bellamy’s, his cabin was the guest space, for when Octavia and Lincoln came to visit. They split their time between camp and a nearby village that was half-destroyed during the war. Lincoln was helping them rebuild, while Octavia taught them to defend themselves.

“It’s not much,” Bellamy had shrugged that first night, after Clarke had dragged herself through the gate. She was still itching from the poison oak, and all the stares, while she got passed from delinquent to delinquent, with hugs and pats on the back.

Bellamy had swung an arm around her, in some strange half-embrace that felt forced and awkward, and made her heart sink. This was _Bellamy_ , and even he wasn’t comfortable around her, anymore. She thought about leaving that night, but when she was shifting around in the extra furs he’d tossed her, he spoke into the dark.

“Why’d you come back?”

She was almost affronted, and would have thought he didn’t want her there, but instead of an accusation, it sounded desperate. Like he _needed_ to know why, needed to understand her.

She could have said _for you_ , and he would have even believed her. It would have made him happy, so she almost did, but in the end she couldn’t, because it wasn’t the truth. Or at least, not the whole truth, and Bellamy deserved all of it.

Bellamy deserved everything she could give, even if it wasn’t much.

“You offered me forgiveness,” she started, keeping her voice even. When she inevitably broke, it would be on her own terms, and alone, where no one could see. “Is that still on the table?”

“Depends,” Bellamy said, voice rough. It was too dark for her to see him, but she could just make out his general form on the opposite end of the room. “Are you staying for dinner?”

It was a terrible enough joke that she laughed, strangled and surprised, and then he did, too. They laughed into the night until they both went hoarse with it, and Clarke sighed.

“For as long as I can,” she decided. She couldn’t promise him forever, because she was done making promises she knew she wouldn’t keep. She wasn’t her mother, or Finn, or Lexa. She wouldn’t be just another disappointment.

“Good,” Bellamy cleared his throat.

“I missed you,” Clarke whispered, tiny and soft, and she almost thought he didn’t hear it, but then he said “Me too,” just as low, and she closed her eyes and smiled so wide her chapped lips cracked open, and she fell asleep tasting blood.

In the end, she lasted two weeks, ducking around corners to avoid crowds, sitting with Bellamy and Raven protective on either side of her. Like she was something that needed their protection—what a joke. She’d crossed through the mountains, until her fingers went black with frostbite, and the soles of her feet bled and bled and bled. And everywhere she’d gone, everyone she’d met had named her _Shez Noumon_. Ash mother. She who burns.

It nearly made her laugh, those first days, the way they looked at her like she was fragile. She wanted to show them the undersides of her wrists, from when she’d tried to _gouthru kiln_ —go through clean. When she’d decided that all the things she was trying to escape were locked up in her head, and the only safe route was _out_.

But the air had frozen over that night, and hypothermia had saved her life. She woke in the morning, and bandaged her arms with yarrow leaves before turning back towards her people.

But, they _weren’t_ her people, anymore. They were their own, and she was an outsider; not even a _Tu Wam_ like Lincoln. She had no world, anymore. She had no wind of her own.

She lasted two weeks, before she was walking towards Raven’s tent, where she and Wick had been hashing out the skeleton of an irrigation system, when she heard one of the children. He was young, from the Ark, and with his mother, pointing over to Clarke and saying in that loud, uncaring way that children do, “Look, mama, it’s the girl who killed all those people!”

Realistically, Clarke knew he was just referring to Mt. Weather, and probably even thought her the hero in his bedtime stories. The vampires in the mountain, burned by Clarke Griffin, the girl made of ash.

But the accusation was loud enough for everyone else to hear, and to turn towards her, and she _knew_ some of them must have heard about the rest of the story. Some of them knew just how much blood is on her hands.

So she held her head up higher than she had in months, and strode into Raven’s tent, declaring “I’m moving into the woods.”

Raven didn’t look at all surprised, though she did look a little wary, and Wick popped up from behind a mass of metal, seeming downright spooked.

“How far into the woods?” he hedged, and Clarke understood, then.

“Just a couple miles,” she promised. “Just enough to—get away. Clear my head.”

“And where will you sleep?” Raven asked, single brow raised. “In a _tent_? All winter?”

Clarke pursed her lips. “I’ll build a cabin,” she decided, and Wick nodded a little before turning back to his work bench.

“You’ll need nails,” he mused. “And a hammer. Probably a level, to make sure everything’s evened out, and some hinges for the doors.”

“You _need_ to tell Bellamy,” Raven interrupted, while Clarke tried to dissuade Wick from his new task of outfitting her with new equipment. “You can’t just disappear, again.”

It was the harshest she’d been since Clarke’s return, and she winced a little at the tone. Raven’s eyes softened, but Clarke knew she was right. She hadn’t been fair to any of them, leaving the way she had—least of all Bellamy.

“I’ll tell him tonight,” she promised with a sigh. She’d have to work at the wording, convince him she wasn’t going to vanish like the last time. She leaned over Raven’s desk, eyeing the schematics she couldn’t even begin to understand. She needed a distraction. “Now, tell me more about this water stuff.”

Clarke waited until they were in their beds, with the lights out, because she didn’t want to see his face when she broke the news. They still weren’t _comfortable_ , weren’t _them_ , but things were getting easier. They were setting the pace back and relearning each other, and she didn’t want to go back to the beginning again.

“I’m moving out of the camp,” she said all at once, and she heard his breath catch across the room. “Just a little ways into the woods,” she continued, babbling a little. She wanted him to tell her he understood, that this was okay. Even though she wasn’t really _doing_ anything for the camp, and didn’t have much to offer the people there, she still felt like leaving them again was selfish. “An hour’s walk, at the most. Probably less, for you.”

“Will you,” Bellamy struggled a little, letting out a groan of frustration. “You’ll _want_ me to? Come out there, and see you?”

Clarke frowned up at the ceiling she couldn’t see. “Of course,” she said, like it was obvious. Because it was. “You’re one of the only people I like being around. You make me feel like I’m still a person.”

Bellamy gave a little irritated grunt. “That’s because you _are_ still a person,” he said sharply. “You’re still Clarke. You’re just—we’ve all been through a lot, here.”

“Yeah,” she said, on a sigh. He was right; they’d all been through loss, and done things they now regretted, and probably would for the rest of their lives. But she can’t seem to let hers go, and she doesn’t know why, and she wishes she could, but it just all feels impossible. “I know, but. They don’t see Clarke. They see the general, that brought down the mountain. And I thought I could bear it—I _wanted_ to, Bell, but. It’s just. It’s not easy, being in charge.” The last words were a shaky laugh, but he stayed quiet on his pallet.

“It’s easier, when you have someone to share it with,” he offered, and it felt less like a suggestion and more like a gift. Like he was laying himself out like a present all wrapped up, hers for the taking. “Goodnight, Clarke.”

She set out in the morning, hoping to travel more ground, but it turned out she didn’t need to. She found the spot within the hour, and started to hack at the trees with the small saw borrowed from Miller. She went for the old and brittle wood, easily snapped and cut through, but it was still heavy work, and she was nearly fainting with each step back in the evening.

When she woke the next morning, her bag was filled with two canteens of water, and some of the breakfast bars Monty and Harper had cooked up. It was obviously Bellamy, but he wasn’t in the camp before she left, and by the time she got back, he’d gone to bed early.

By the third day, she knew he was avoiding her, but there wasn’t really much she could do. She was constantly exhausted, from the hiking and the building, and Bellamy kept himself busy with guard work and taking extra watch shifts, so she couldn’t really pull him away to talk.

Finally, he found her a week later, and her breathing began to quicken as he approached. They would talk, like they always did, and everything would go back to the way it was. She’d _missed_ him.

“Octavia and Lincoln are coming to visit, tomorrow,” he said, business-like and to the point. Clarke’s heart sank.

“Oh,” she said dumbly, wetting her lips. “So I should probably leave your cabin.” She hesitated as his eyes flickered with guilt.

“It’s just for a few days,” he promised. “Raven and Wick said you can crash on their floor.”

“Great,” she said weakly, and he nodded a little awkwardly before striding off to the watch post.

“I think he hates me,” she muttered darkly into the furs of her makeshift mattress. Raven sighed hugely from the bed.

“Go to sleep,” she ordered. “Shouldn’t you be tired from your sorry attempt at building a house? I have actual things to do in the morning; I cannot be kept up all night by your boy problems.”

“That’s okay, Clarke,” Wick piped up, pleasantly. “I’m a _way_ better confidant than Reyes. Tell me all about your boy problems. As the only one here with a penis, I’m pretty sure I can add some insight.”

Raven blew a raspberry into the air and Wick made a general noise of disgust, which Clarke was pretty sure meant some of her spit landed on him. “Go the fuck to sleep,” she commanded, and the room grew silent.

“Seriously, though,” Wick hissed, too loud to be called a whisper. “I’m a boy. I know things about boys, in general. I’m helpful,” he cut off in a whine, and Clarke assumed Raven kicked him.

“You know nothing,” she declared darkly. “Now help _me_ , by shutting up, so I can get some shut eye.”

“Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired,” he told her, but it sounded mostly fond.

“I’m awesome,” Raven yawned. “Now shut up.”

When Lincoln walked through the gate and caught sight of Clarke, he grinned the widest she’d ever seen him, and strode up to hug her with both arms. It was gentler than she’d been expecting from such a large man, but it was warm, and more than welcome. She’d missed Lincoln, too.

“I knew you’d come back when you were ready,” he grinned, and Clarke gave a shaky smile back.

“I’m not really sure if I am,” she admitted, but he just shrugged.

“You will be,” he assured her, and turned back to his wife.

They’d gotten married while she was away, with thick black lines winding up their right arms, in matching swirls and divots of ink. The Arkers welcomed the couple back, happy and casual, and Bellamy grinned as he gripped Lincoln’s arm, and then swung his sister like when they were still kids, just stepping onto Earth. It made Clarke’s heart ache in a new, less horrible way.

Yes, she’d missed the flu that had ransacked the camp in winter, and the almost-war with a nearby grounder tribe that tried to pick a fight, and the uneasy stares and whispers of people that were supposed to know her, but.

She’d also missed _this_ —the first wedding ceremony on the ground. Her people—her _real_ people—happy and safe and content, all together. Apparently they’d gotten married by the Dropship, in the little butterfly alcove, at sunset. Monty told her that the electric blue of their insect wings had bled in with the orange and purple of the sky, until the air itself was washed with color.

“You should have been there,” he said wistfully.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “But I’ll see the next one,” and he grinned.

Octavia didn’t so much _find_ Clarke, as stumble upon her in Raven’s tent. Raven herself was late to the meeting, and Wick had disappeared, which meant they were probably off having sex somewhere. Apparently they have a public sex kink that no one liked to talk about, but everyone went sort of sour when it was mentioned.

“You’re back,” Octavia said, a little pointed, as if prodding Clarke’s fences for weak spots.

“I am,” Clarke nodded. “How long are you and Lincoln staying?”

Octavia eyed her for a moment. “A few days,” she shrugged, noncommittal. “What about you?”

Clarke shrugged back. “A few years,” she said. “Maybe longer.” It was meant to be a joke, but instead of laughing, Octavia just stood completely still and watched Clarke like a hawk.

That might have been her _Kreyon_. Clarke can easily picture her soaring through a past life, diving through the air like a bullet.

“Congratulations,” Clarke blurted, nodding to Octavia’s tattooed arm.

She flexes it with pride, and snorts a little. “Thanks.” More staring and waiting, until Raven finally crashed in through the front flap.

“O-kay,” she drawled, taking in the scene, amused. “Sorry to interrupt…”

“Don’t be,” Octavia said, twisting on her heels. “I was just leaving.” She gave Raven a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek, before marching out like a soldier.

“What was _that_?” Raven asked, choking on a laugh, and Clarke sighed.

“Apparently all Blake’s hate me,” she decided. “It must be genetic.”

Raven rolled her eyes dramatically. “Yeah, okay,” she huffed. “ _Anyway_ , check out this badass new screwdriver…”

Octavia and Lincoln left after just three days, as promised. Lincoln found her before they went, so he could say goodbye. He’d gone out with her, to see what little she’d begun of her cabin, and offer advice about starting a garden, and wear to set traps for nearby foxes and rabbits. They sketched a little together—he’d brought her a sketchbook, made of tree shavings all bound up with coarse leather and cord.

“To begin your own collection,” he smiled softly, and she hugged him so tightly it had to hurt. She cried a little on his shoulder, and was mortified, but he graciously kept quiet about it.

“It’s crazy, right?” Miller asked, coming to stand beside her as they watched them go. “Everything that happened, and they still ended up together, _married_ , with a _house_.” He shook his head, like he still couldn’t believe it, even though he’d actually attended the wedding. Monty told her he’d even worn a _tie_ they’d found in a bunker.

“Yeah, crazy.” Clarke smirked. “So, what’s this I hear about you and _Monty_?” she waggled her eyebrows, and he shoved her, flushing as he stalked away.

“Why do you have to leave?” Bellamy asked that night. She’d been sure he wouldn’t want her to move back in, but when she’d gone to Raven and Wick’s, all of her things were missing, and it’s not like there was anywhere else they could be.

Clarke rolled over onto her back with a huff. “I just, _can’t_ be around people,” she sighed. “Not—you, and Raven, and Monty, and Wick—you’re all fine. It’s everyone else that I don’t know how to be around.”

“You and Miller seemed pretty cozy,” he argued, and she fought a grin. But it was dark, so it’s not like he could see it.

“Miller’s fine too,” she amended. “And you’re more than fine,” she added, a little quieter. There was a pause, and for a second she thought maybe she’d ruined the moment.

Then she heard the shuffle of furs, and soft footsteps as he padded across the room, before finally sliding in beside her, just close enough that she could feel his warmth.

“I could help you be around them,” he offered, voice low and the vibrations of it made her shiver. He clearly misinterpreted that as her being _cold_ , which was laughable; it was late spring, and the air was hot and stifling. She honestly wasn’t sure what she’d do when summer came. But she let him tug her in close anyway, wrapping his arm around her to hold her in place against his chest. When he spoke, his mouth moved against the back of her neck, warm and wet. “We could all help. You could get used to it again.”

“I don’t think I can,” she explained softly, curling back against him so he wouldn’t try to leave. She didn’t have to, though; he just tightened his arm, clearly not planning to go anywhere.

“But just to be clear,” he said, “You do want me to visit?”

“Every day,” she said, clear and honest. She could feel him grin against her skin. “I’d probably go crazy without you.”

“I thought I drive you crazy,” he teased, and she smiled, warm and happy.

“ _Crazier_ ,” she corrected, and he laughed into her hair.

He found her up at the cabin the next day, sometime in the afternoon. He held up a sack in explanation. “I brought lunch,” he explained, and then frowned at her patchy job. There was some semblance of walls, if she looked hard enough, and a hole where she thought a window might go, mainly just because she’d run out of longer longs. “ _This_ is where you’ll be living?” he asked, horrified, and Clarke tried not to take offense.

“It’s not like I have a lot to work with,” she huffed defensively, and his eyes sparked up in an instant.

“We have spare lumber,” he shrugged, sitting down on a stump and unpacking their lunch. It smelled like venison, which had her over in seconds. “From when we built our nice, _superior_ cabins.” He grinned when she scowled.

“Not everybody’s an architect, Bellamy,” she snapped tearing into the meat. “I learned to do other things with my hands.”

She didn’t realize how the statement sounded until she glanced up to find him staring at her, eyes dark and heated. She flushed immediately, and then thought better of it.

“Like how to take care of the human body,” she continued, only smirking a little when he choked on a bite. “How to make them feel good,” she explained, and he pushed her off her stump, face red and blotchy.

After that, he was consumed with finishing her cabin, ordering some of the guards to switch their rounds, to carry boards from the camp up to her building site, and work on the house until dusk. She was livid at first, both at his blatant abuse of power, and his refusal to let her continue working alone, but it was hard to stay mad at him when the whole thing was finished in four days.

“It’s gorgeous,” she breathed when he showed her, and he looked on, smugger than she’d ever seen him. But that was fine; he’d earned the right to be smug—the place _was_ gorgeous, much more than the simple one-room plan she’d envisioned. Instead there were three rooms—the front, a kitchen and dining area combined, which led into the separate bedroom, and tapered off into the bathroom at the back. There were shelves built into the walls, for books and herbs and other things she’d been collecting over time. The bedroom had a real _bed_ , with a headboard and footboard, and a mattress stuffed with dried straw and made of patched up parachute that would be much softer than any fur-covered pallet. There were _windows_ , made up of sea glass he’d had Lincoln trade for, with batteries and dead bullets and whatever else they’d scrounged together.

“Bellamy,” Clarke breathed, brushing her hand on an old porcelain plate. It was chipped around the edges, but had a fancy design. He must have found it in a bunker, and spent time scrubbing it clean in the stream.

“I thought you might like that,” he grinned from the doorway. He flited about the whole place, pointing out which areas had given them trouble, and which things had been Raven’s or Wick’s or even Miller’s ideas. “And that’s actually not a nail, but a screw, from a box in one of the bunkers, so who _knows_ how old it is, and I thought that was pretty neat, so—” he stopped, taking in her expression—big, watery eyes and big, watery smile. “What is it?” he demanded. “What’s wrong?”

Clarke shook her head, because she knew the moment she tried to speak, everything would just come crashing out and she’d never be able to stop. She shook her head and crossed over to him, laying her hands on his cheeks. “I love you,” she said, and then kissed him.

Bellamy kissed her back, slow and tentative, like he _still_ didn’t know what she was doing, or thought maybe she didn’t mean it the same way. So she laughed against his mouth and ran her tongue against his lips, and _there_ was the kiss she expected.

How long had she been waiting to be kissed like this? So that her spine itched, and her toes curled, and she just wanted to melt into the other person and let them carry her around. She kissed him and kissed him, and he backed them up until she hit the table, and then he just scooped her up on top of it, refusing to pull away from her mouth.

“We’ll have to breathe at some point,” she pointed out, but he dipped down to suck at the skin along her neck until she keened.

“Who needs air, really?” he mumbled, biting a bruise into the slope of her shoulder, and then licking it clean.

“You’re wearing too many clothes,” she decided, and he shifted up to laugh into her hair.

“I love you too,” he said, pulling back to look at her. His eyes were warm and soft and happy, and she kissed them when he blinked.

“I still want you to fuck me,” she chirped, pulling at his shirt, and he snorted.

“Good to know we’re on the same page,” he grinned, digging the pad of his thumb between her thighs and stroking until she was grinding up against his hand, quick and dirty.

“Not really what I had in mind,” she gasped, breath shuddering, once it was over. But Bellamy just laughed and scooped her up again, and she went limp in her arms.

“Oh, believe me, princess,” he said, voice low and rumbling as he carried her to the bedroom. “That was only the beginning.”

“Now I _really_ don’t want you to leave,” he murmured. The sun was setting, and it would be dark soon, and they were still lying naked on Clarke’s new bed. She had her head on his arm, tracing the freckles on his stomach with an idle hand while he thumbed at the skin of her thigh absently.

“You’re still going to visit,” Clarke demanded, worrying her lip. She didn’t really know what she would do, if he didn’t. She didn’t think she could go back to not having this, not having Bellamy—not now that she knew what he felt and tasted like. Not now that he said he loves her too.

Bellamy grins a little ruefully. “Can’t get rid of me that easily,” he said, leaning in to kiss her, slow and deep the way they like.

He’d have to leave soon, but they still had a few minutes. And after that, they’d have the rest of their lives. He’ll still live in the camp, because he can’t _not_ be around their people, and she’ll live in her cabin, but. It’s an hour’s walk. He’ll come by every day, and maybe sometimes she’ll go in to visit with him and Raven and Monty. They’ll make it work.

Abby comes to visit the next day, while Clarke is setting up her garden. She hasn’t actually seen much of her mother, since the first day she’d come back—either because Abby was trying to give her space, or because she was actually uncomfortable around her now, Clarke doesn’t know.

Her mother looks through the cabin, quietly appraising, sounding impressed when she compliments the windows and shelves. She sees the over-shirt Bellamy had left in Clarke’s bedroom, which she’s folded and placed on the bed, but doesn’t mention it.

She does ask if Clarke’s drinking the tea—it was just another think Lincoln had shown them, red-faced beside an equally embarrassed Bellamy as he explained what it was _for_. Most girls in the camp drink a cup a day, alongside their breakfast, and Clarke isn’t an exception. They don’t know how long their implants will last, or even if they still _do_ , so it’s good to be prepared, just in case.

“I misjudged him,” Abby says, after they’ve eaten some of the wild berry breakfast bars she’s brought for them. “Blake. We all did, I think. He’ll be good for you.”

Clarke wasn’t exactly waiting for her mother’s approval of her boyfriend, but it’s nice to know she’s got it. There are few things they can agree on, anymore, so it’s comforting to have something in common for once. “He is,” she agrees, and sees Abby off, feeling strangely fond.

“My mom and I had a heart-to-heart,” she tells Raven, when she sees her the next day. Bellamy had stayed the night before, but had to leave extra early for dawn patrol, and she’d blearily hiked alongside him. Her garden isn’t growing anything yet, won’t be for months, and she’s only just set the game traps up.

He holds her hand the whole walk, claiming it’s so she doesn’t fall asleep and trip or something, but she thinks he just wants to hold her hand. Admittedly, she does almost fall asleep a few times along the way.

“Weird,” Raven frowns, and hits whatever she’s tinkering with, with a wrench. Wick makes a noise of protest from across the room, but there’s not much he can do from there. “About what?”

“Bellamy,” Clarke says, and Raven grins smugly like she knew she would. Every time Clarke mentions Bellamy now, or he mentions her, Raven looks like she’s ready to say _I told you so_ , which isn’t even fair, because she never actually _did_.

“Maybe she just doesn’t want you to cut her off from her future grandchildren,” she muses, and Clarke rolls her eyes.

“We’ve been together for two days,” she points out, and Raven rolls her eyes back.

“You’ve been _together_ for a year,” she argues. “You just didn’t notice until two days ago.”

Clarke doesn’t see Lexa for three months, and when she does, she lets out a bit of an undignified gasp, and falls down in her garden. Lexa looks at her, a little amused but mostly cautious, like she doesn’t want to spook her.

“What are you doing here?” she asks dumbly. Lexa looks terrible—weather-beaten and tired, and a little malnourished. Clarke knows from Lincoln that she was abandoned by her people, labeled _Kwelwon_ , weak one, for not taking the blood they were due, in the mountain. A coward, run out of the tribe so she couldn’t infect the rest of them.

She supposes she does feel a little sorry for Lexa; she understands what it is, to make what you think is the right decision, and then have everything go horribly wrong.

“They call you _Shez Noumon_ ,” Lexa says, impassive as ever. Even without the bead signifying her leadership, or the paint signifying war, she still looks regal.

“I know,” Clarke says, standing up. The first of the grounders came through just a week after her cabin was finished. They brought her fish from the river, and took her blessing and left.

Clarke washes the leeks in her sink while Lexa sits at the table and watches. She’s silent, folding and unfolding her hands rhythmically, looking around and taking in her surroundings. She stares for a bit at the phoenix mask, still hung in its place of honor, before blinking away. Finally, she says “Your home is lovely.”

Clarke snorts, because small talk has never suited people like them. “What is it you want, Lexa?” she asks, suddenly tired with the whole situation. She wishes Bellamy were here; he’d know what to do, and what to say. For all that he likes to pretend to hate everyone and everything, Bellamy Blake is extremely good with people when he wants to be.

“I was hoping I might stay the night,” Lexa admits. “I have been walking for some time, and the nights are growing colder. I don’t have a fur.”

Lincoln said they stripped Lexa naked before sending her away, hoping she’d die from the elements, or take the honorable death and kill herself. It’s the appropriate action to take, for cowards, to slit their veins or down in the river. But they have to choose it for themselves, or else it’s not a redemption.

Lexa chose not to take the clean way through. She’s wearing plain clothes, and a dirty tunic. Clarke won’t ask where she got them, or way she chose not to die. She doesn’t really care all that much.

But, she’s here now, and Clarke remembers what it’s like, being on your own in the mountains, so she nods. “Alright. You’ll have to sleep out here. I’ll get you a blanket, but I don’t have a spare pallet.”

Lexa smiles, soft and small, but it’s grateful. “Thank you, _Clarke kom Skaikru_ ,” she says, and it shouldn’t really make Clarke happy, hearing what they used to call her, back before she just burned things.

Clarke has her help make that night’s supper, because if she’s going to eat it she’s going to earn it, and they’re both leaning over the pot when Bellamy walks in.

He takes in the scene, looking a little harsher than Clarke was really expecting. She’d never told him about her— _whatever it was_ —with Lexa, so his anger must only be about the broken treaty. He opens his mouth, but she nods over to the bedroom, so he just nods tensely and follows her in.

“What the hell, Clarke,” he says, sounding surprisingly mild, and if it weren’t for the ticking in his jaw, she’d never even know he was mad.

“She showed up this morning,” she shrugs. “Asked if she could spend the night. I said yes—last I checked, this is _my_ cabin,” she points out, and he winces.

“I thought,” he hesitates, nervous, and she reaches for his hand on instinct. He does this, she’s learned; second guesses himself, and won’t actually say it unless she coaxes the words from him. So she does.

“Thought what, Bell?” she asks, soft, affectionate. He melts back against the wall.

“I thought it was our cabin,” he admits, and she grins up at him.

“It is,” she agrees. “You’re right. And the next time you have a grounder friend passing through who needs a place to stay, you can absolutely offer them the kitchen table.” He snorts, and squeezes her hand a little.

“You feel comfortable around her?” he hedges, tensing up again.

Clarke shrugs. “Lexa’s easy,” she says, and he frowns. “Because I don’t feel like I let her down. I don’t have anything to prove, with her. Or make up for.”

“You don’t have to prove anything with me,” he argues, and she surges up to kiss him. He kisses hard, still angry, but unable to really _stop_ whenever she does this. It’s proven to be a very convenient system.

“Things are easy with you, too,” she grins. “I love you, and I trust you. More than anyone. Lexa—I don’t _trust_ her, but that just means I know she can’t let me down again.” She worries her lip a little. It’s probably worse if she _doesn’t_ tell him, right? “Full disclosure,” she says, purposefully bright. “Lexa kissed me, while you were still in Mt. Weather. I kissed her back,” she admits, and his entire face darkens.

“Clarke,” he starts, clearly trying to stay calm, and she strokes her thumbs against his neck.

“I told her I wasn’t ready to be with anyone,” she continues. “So it didn’t go further than that. And then she broke the treaty, and I saw _you_ again, and I realized it wasn’t that I wasn’t ready to be with _anyone_.” She stops, because now he’s staring down at her and she’s pretty sure he’s put it all together, by now. She doesn’t have to embarrass herself further. Bellamy’s clever, he can figure it out.

“Since Mt. Weather?” he asks, running a hand through her hair. She doesn’t think he even realizes he’s doing it.

“Since you showed me how to shoot a gun,” she chirps, and he kisses her, hot and wet and fucking _filthy_ , bending her down on the bed. His hands slide down to grip every bit of her they can, until she’s canting her hips up and gasping. “Is that a kink for you?” she asks, breathless. “Me shooting guns?”

“ _You’re_ a kink for me,” he says, short and angry, like he’s actually _mad_ that it’s taken them so long to get here. “Fuck—I wanted you _so fucking bad_ that day,” he admits, pressing open-mouthed kisses where he’s rucked her shirt up.

“We have a houseguest,” she reminds him, but it’s a weak point since she’s moaning it in his ear. He groans a little before pulling back, tracing a line along her stomach before righting her shirt.

“Raincheck,” he says, firm and serious. “I won’t forget,” he warns.

“Of course not,” Clarke says, beaming and happy, tugging him back towards the door. “I won’t let you.”

If Lexa had heard any of their meeting, she doesn’t let on, simply giving Bellamy a cool look of assessment before gesturing to the boiling pot. “Dinner is ready.”

They sit and eat around the table, and it’s about as courteous as Clarke could expect from either of them, in such close quarters. Mostly there’s a lot of talk about the weather patterns, and that year’s crop yield.

Clarke fetches Lexa a blanket, as promised, and helps her situate it on the table top. She’s about to head into bed, when Lexa catches her wrist.

“He is your second,” she guesses, “Your man inside the mountain?”

“Yes,” Clarke nods, and then, “My _Houdon,_ ” because it’s not like he _won’t_ be. Probably soon.

Lexa shows a small glimmer of surprise, and then gives that small smile. “I am happy for you,” she says, and Clarke even believes her.

“ _Mai yu tombom eynd houm_ ,” Clarke says softly, and when she turns away, Lexa’s eyes are shining.

Bellamy’s on his side facing the window when Clarke crawls in beside him, but he twists around to pull her close. “Did she fucking hit on you,” he mumbles half-heartedly, too sleepy to actually feel mad.

Clarke laughs against his chest, and she’s still feeling warm and loved from earlier, so she whispers “ _Yu laik ai houm_ ,” because she’s not brave enough to say it in English, yet.

But she’d forgotten Octavia is fluent in Trigedalsent, and has been giving her brother lessons.

Bellamy’s eyes snap open, and he pulls back so she’ll squint up at him. “Really?” he asks, and Clarke fights another laugh, because _how does he_ still _not know?_

“Really,” she says, kissing the pulse point in his neck, feeling him swallow against her lips.

“I called you my wife the other day,” he says, completely casual. “Miller made fun of me for it.” He wets his lips, looking back down at her. “I guess we should probably just get married,” he says, like it’s a logical business tactic. “So we’re not liars.”

“I guess we should,” Clarke agrees, and he just sort of stares at her for a long minute.

“Are you _sure_ we can’t have sex while she’s out there?” he whines, and she wants to laugh, but his hand has slipped down between her legs and now he’s pumping two fingers inside her, which just is _not_ fair.

“Maybe if we’re _really_ quiet,” she gasps, and he grins, bending down to suck hickeys into her breasts.

“I can be quiet,” he promises, voice a ghost against her skin, and she doesn’t believe him for a second.

Lexa leaves while they’re still in bed, and they find the blanket folded neatly on the table, along with a necklace made of wooden beads and river stones. Clarke isn’t sure if it’s payment for her blessing, like all the others, or just a gift from a sort-of friend. Bellamy hammers a nail in the wall so she can hang it beside the mask.

Octavia comes to visit that March. Lincoln has been through several times before then, but she’s always stayed at home in their village, more grounder than sky girl, these days. It doesn’t really surprise anyone, but Clarke can tell Bellamy’s excited about her coming to stay for the week.

But instead of going straight to the camp, she finds Clarke on her hands and knees, weeding through her garden.

“Jesus, Clarke,” Octavia snaps, tugging her up a little gentler than she’s expecting. “Should you even be doing that?”

She crosses her arms and glares, nodding to Clarke’s stomach. It’s just _barely_ begun to show, but of course Octavia would be just as worried and overprotective as her brother—it’s in their genes.

Clarke shuffles a little and huffs; she can’t help it, really. Every time she even lifts a pan, or a bowl, Bellamy’s there hovering, snatching them from her hands and demanding she sit down so he can rub her feet. It was cute at first, and a little endearing, but now it’s just irritating, being treated like an invalid every day.

“My mother’s a _doctor_ , Octavia,” she says, rolling her eyes. “I’m _fine_.”

Abby has actually proven the most relaxed about the whole situation. When Clarke had gone to her, a little worried and confused—she’d been drinking the tea _every morning_ , and still had the implant in her arm—Abby had just taken a few tests, and then told her the results a week later.

“At least now we know to be more vigilant,” her mother had shrugged, patting her on the shoulder. “I’ll get you some herbs that will help with the nausea, and see if we have any salvageable prenatal vitamins. You should go tell Bellamy—congratulations.”

It was…bizarre, but at least _one_ person in the camp wasn’t going crazy over the idea of a baby. It’ll be the first sky child born on the ground, but it’s not like they don’t have _children_. The youngest is just two years old, only seven months when the Ark came down.

Raven and Wick are arguing over designs for a crib, while Monty, Harper and Monroe are in a competition to see who can create the best baby food. Even Miller has put together a tiny basinet, to keep near their bed for those first months.

And then there’s Bellamy, who’s dreaming about baby names in his sleep. So far he’s stuck on Minerva, and she can’t get him to budge.

Clarke takes Octavia inside for tea, mainly so she’ll stop glaring viciously at the garden, like it’s actually out to get her niece or nephew.

“Is Bell freaking out, yet?” she asks, cradling the cup of tea in her hands. It always surprises Clarke, seeing how soft Octavia can be, when she’s not slitting throats and roaring battle cries.

Clarke rolls her eyes without really meaning to, and grins goofily. “ _That’s_ an understatement.”

Octavia nods and eyes her for a minute, taking a sip of her drink before speaking. “So, I guess I’m stuck with you,” she decides, and Clarke’s breath catches in her throat.

“What changed your mind?” she asks, and watches Octavia’s eyes fall down to the ink on her right ring finger.

She and Bellamy were married a week after Lexa left. They didn’t have it at the Dropship, or the alcove, but near the river. The ceremony was at sunrise, which felt fitting. It was a beginning.

Octavia had stood beside her brother, and Lincoln beside Clarke—along with Raven, who refused to give up the title of maid of honor, so Lincoln was the matron. Kane conducted the ceremony, which no one questioned. Even if he wasn’t actually qualified, the legalities didn’t matter much to them. Just the vows and the ink—and the rings, because Bellamy is old fashioned. Clarke’s fingers began to swell early on in her pregnancy, so hers hangs on a chain around her neck, glinting pale silver in the sunlight.

“You,” Octavia shrugs, easy, just like her brother. When the Blake’s love, it’s always easy. “You stayed,” she explains. “And anyway, I can’t really be mad at the mother of my future godchild.”

“You might have to fight Raven on that,” Clarke warns, and Octavia gives a feral grin.

“I’m counting on it.”

The grounders begin to come more frequently in the weeks that follow, and now when they finish their usual prayer, they bend to press gentle hands to the swell of Clarke’s stomach, whispering _another_ blessing.

“It’s for the baby,” Lincoln explains, but that doesn’t make Clarke feel any less weird about it. They’re calling her child _Shez Youngon_ , child of ash, and she’s not sure she likes it.

“I don’t want them to be treated any different,” she tells Lincoln, and he smiles reassuringly.

“They won’t be,” he promises. “They might be born of ash, but they will have to make their own destiny. Learn from their own fires.”

In the end, he’s right, of course. Lincoln usually is.

Clarke gives birth two weeks early, which of course sends everyone into a panic except for her mother, which is good since she’s the one delivering it. Clarke’s labor lasts thirteen hours, with her crushing Bellamy’s hand on one side, and Raven’s on the other, as her mother coaxes her through the birth.

But then there’s the _after_ birth, which Clarke had even known about, but it seems wholly unnecessary because _she has a baby_ and she needs to hold her, right now. She needs to hold her, and count her fingers and toes, and check her sclera, and nuzzle her little pink nose.

She gets through it in record time, and she’s looking down at her baby—a tiny person that _she made_ —while Bellamy coos at her over her shoulder.

“Have you picked something _bearable_?” she asks wearily, and he presses a kiss to her sweaty hair.

“I have just the thing,” he promises, but then Octavia bursts in, demanding to see her niece, and the moment is ruined.

“She looks like a potato,” Miller observes from his corner of the room, and six eyes glare back at him.

“She’s _adorable_ ,” Octavia declares. “Bell isn’t allowed to name her, Clarke. He failed miserably, the last time.”

Bellamy ruffles his sister’s hair affectionately. “Too late.” He grins when she groans.

Clarke hears none of it, staring down at her daughter. She’s working her little jaw back and forth, and there’s a tuft of light hair on top of her head, but she has Bellamy’s dark eyes, and Clarke’s glad for it. She’s perfect, and she’s theirs.

She bends her nose to her baby’s. “ _Yu laik ai houm._ ”

**Author's Note:**

> yu laik ai houm - you are my home


End file.
